


and there's daylight in my fingers but it's snowing in my bones

by fits_in_frames



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-17
Updated: 2009-06-17
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's polite, even when she's falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and there's daylight in my fingers but it's snowing in my bones

**Author's Note:**

> _and there's daylight in my fingers_  
>  _but it's snowing in my bones_  
>  _been sucking on the echoes_  
>  _of a thousand telephones_  
>  _and when we meet again we will be strangers_  
>  {david gray // only the lonely}
> 
> Written for Porn Battle VIII ([original comment](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/10575.html?thread=543823#t543823)).

Lance makes it a point to never get emotionally involved with his patients, or his subjects as the case may be--as the case _is_ \--but it's always been hard with Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth. And then Booth goes into a coma, and objectivity goes out the window.

She comes to his office late on the second day. She stands awkwardly in the doorway until he asks her in. She closes the door behind her.

"How's Booth?" he asks, shuffling a last few papers on his desk. He knows she needs to tell him, but she won't unless he asks. She's polite, even when she's falling apart.

"About the same," she says, dragging her fingers across the back of chair in front of her. "Angela is with him."

"Good," he says, and believes it. Angela is a healing presence, if a bit overbearing at times. After a moment, he continues: "What do you need?"

She doesn't respond with anything more than a shake of her head, so he walks over, takes her hands in both of his. He half-smiles when she looks up at him.

"What do you need?" he asks again. Her expression is strangely blank, even for her. He can practically feel the emotions compressed in her chest when her hands curl up in his own. And then it happens: she kisses him. He knows he's only a surrogate, and he's only "taking a break" with Daisy, and he shouldn't kiss her back, but she's so quick and forceful and needy that he almost can't help himself.

She pulls away, sets back on her heels, eyes still closed, mouth still open, and murmurs, "I'm sorry."

He studies her, carefully, and can see something starting to surface. He justifies what he does next with that and the fact that his head is still spinning: he cups her jaw and kisses her again. She hums with surprise against his lips, then frees her hands and slips them under his jacket. She feels like warm desire, and he should push her away, he should say no, but he can't. He wraps an arm around her waist and then something gets pinged and she starts kissing him frantically, and then he's loosening his tie, and she's taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. She backs him up into one of the chairs behind him; he sits, and she straddles his lap, wordlessly pulling her blouse over her head, then kisses him and takes off his shirt, greedily pressing herself against him. She slips her hands under the hem of his undershirt and he makes a sound of disapproval through his nose, hoping she'll get the message. She does, and pulls away for a moment, hands still warm against his belly. Something in her overblown eyes changes, and she knows. She leans in again, hair curtaining them in against the world.

"It's okay," she says breathlessly against his lips, gives him a little nipping kiss. "It's okay." She kisses him again, moving her hands in small, soothing circles, while he unbuckles his belt and starts to undo his pants. She lays her hands on top of his, and he stops.

"No," she whispers, and it's a question and an answer all at once, and he's only half-surprised when her hand finds its way under the waistband of his briefs. She keeps kissing him, only stopping to catch her breathe or moan wordlessly, and rubs herself against his thigh in the same rhythm that she strokes him. He can feel her desperate heat through the layers of cotton and rests his hands on her hips, not daring to venture any further. When he comes, it's unexpected and oddly meaningless, and only when she slows herself and kisses him so hard he can feel the bruises forming already does he know it's over.

She doesn't even bother to clean her hand, just pulls it out and collapses against him, sticky fingers hovering somewhere near his heart, and starts to cry. He gathers as much post-orgasmic strength as he can, as quickly as he can. He rubs her back, _shhh_ s at her soothingly, and feels all the feelings and frustration and anger and hope and fear leaking out of her as she sobs heavy, gulping sobs into the crook of his neck. She doesn't fit against him quite right, but it's okay.

She calms down a bit after a few minutes, but he just continues moving his hands against her back in broad circles.

"It'll be all right," he murmurs. He believes it, and he thinks that maybe, for a moment, she does, too.


End file.
